


C'mon, Sam. Pay attention to me. I'm bored.

by novak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He digs his thumb deep into the scar on his palm, pushing at the firm, warped tissue and Lucifer chuckles, low and deep, into his ear. "That doesn't work any more, big boy. You can't ignore me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'mon, Sam. Pay attention to me. I'm bored.

Lucifer's hands are warm against his rib cage, fingers splayed around across the fine bones as they heave, shift with panicked breaths. Lucifer smiles and leans in close, closer, the stubble on his chin sharp and uncomfortable against Sam's jawline. He turns his head to the side, a reflex, and Lucifer kisses down the muscle there, smiling when it quivers beneath his lips. 

Sam refuses to acknowledge him other than moving away. He digs his thumb deep into the scar on his palm, pushing at the firm, warped tissue and Lucifer chuckles, low and deep, into his ear. "That doesn't work any more, big boy. You can't ignore me."  
Ever since Sam responded in the alleyway, his hallucinations have gotten worse. Dean notices, Castiel notices; they see the way Sam's eyes never quite focus on them and instead behind them, or sometimes at empty seats inside shoddy hotel rooms.  
Dean has no choice but to leave Sam alone with his mind for periods of up to (and sometimes over) three hours. People are dying in the world, dying from attacks that Dean, with the help of Castiel, can put an end to. Sam doesn't feel as though he'd be much help on a job, not now - and he's starting to wonder if he'll ever be the same again. He wants to be normal, he wants to be Dean's baby brother again - even if the constant teasing and nicknames get to be infuriating. 

Dean _needs_ normality and Sam can't offer it to him; a sharp pain swells in his chest, and it has nothing to do with Lucifer's teeth burying themselves in his left pectoral until two crescent-shaped bruises blossom beneath the skin. Sam makes a low noise, a groan, but doesn't move. Lucifer's on top of him, straddling him, and Sam doesn't have the energy to fight back; he's not slept in days. Lucifer's been singing, acting out scenes from archaic plays that Sam has never heard of. He's been dancing, drawing, writing, reading, teasing. 

He's been crawling into bed beside Sam every night and playing with his hair. 

Sam's done his best to ignore it, he has, but there's times in the morning when he's dozed off, a few minutes of blissful rest, and he turns into the faux-warmth of Lucifer's vessel, presses in against his chest, nose finding his greasy hair. These mornings always end up with Sam falling out of bed in a tangle of too-long arms and legs, an indignant squawk, and Dean flinging off his bedsheets with panic burning in his eyes. 

Sam focuses on thoughts of Dean as Lucifer's tongue snakes down his throat, moving over the bulge of his larynx, slippery. He can feel the cool trails of Lucifer's tongue, where it's left glistening streaks of saliva. Goose pimples race down his arms, the fine hairs standing on end.  
Lucifer takes it as invitation and grinds his hips down against Sam's; there's not an erection there, Lucifer doubts there will be, but that doesn't really matter, not to him. "C'mon, Sam. Sammy. You've got to pay attention to me sometime, right?" His voice is a whisper, damp, hot breath ghosting across Sam's clavicle. "It's boring, being all alone, isn't it? You like old Luci's company, yeah?" 

Sam grits his teeth and closes his eyes tightly as Lucifer rubs calloused hands up his bare chest, tweaking over pebbled nipples experimentally. Sam's nostrils flare, but otherwise he doesn't react, instead choosing to stare at the patterns behind his eyelids as the yellow light of the hotel lamps burns through them.  
Lucifer moves further down, the movements somewhat awkward - Sam's legs are ridiculously long - until he's mouthing along the top of his jeans, nipping at the buckle of a leather belt, smirking. Sam opens his eyes, looks down at him, and he feels like a fawn trapped beneath a mountain lion.

He closes his eyes again, lets his head fall back against the starchy pillowcase, and tries to keep his mouth from contorting as Lucifer slides down the fly of his jeans, tooth by tooth, and pops the button through its hole.


End file.
